


What I Remember

by innocenceofthedaisy



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, M/M, Narrator Patroclus, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:23:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innocenceofthedaisy/pseuds/innocenceofthedaisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Beauty has a strange way of staying in the minds of men. He made everything dull in comparison, no candle could match the fire in his heart. He was mine, and I am no poet. I remember all that he was. I am made of these memories."</p><p>Patroclus remembers quite a lot. He remembers the sort of thing the poets tend to forget. This is what he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Remember

Beauty has a strange way of staying in the minds of men. The poets tell of his sun-kissed hair, his speed, his glory and honor, his death. But they never speak of what he truly was. A soldier, yes. A hero, yes. A son of kings and gods, yes. But he was not a soldier, hero, or regal son. Not to me. These are not the things that made him beautiful. He was beautiful when he sang, when he threw his head back and laughed. The sun did not only glint off his hair, but off his eyes when they danced in mirth. He made everything dull in comparison, no candle could match the fire in his heart. He was beautiful when he held me, caressed me, loved me. He was mine, and I am no poet. I remember all that he was. I am made of these memories. 

I remember first seeing you, your pink soled feet flying across the beaten track. You seemed to have been carried by Apollo himself, how your feet danced. I remember thinking this could have only been a dream, no mortal man can fly as you had.

I remember wishing that I were but a dream when I left my home in exile. The stain of innocent blood had been washed from my hands and tunic, but remained smeared across my mind and my reputation, my honor. I remember arriving at Phthia in disgrace, expecting to be known, expecting to be feared and hated. I remember dirtying the white marble of the halls with the dust on my feet and the blemish on my soul. But my dirt was washed clean when I saw you, the picture of idle luxury with light streaming in shafts across your features. A strange way of staying in the minds of men, indeed. Odysseus never mentioned your bow lips, the quickness of the flash of white teeth, the toss of golden threads when you turned your head to face me, though he was quick to exclaim your heroic death. 

I remember when you threw a fig, and, daring, I bit into the sweetness. I remember dreaming for something familiar, warm, something that wanted me for more than an heir. You became the only thing in my world: my sun, my moon, my stars, my eclipse. And an eclipse you were. 

I remember when those bow lips met mine for the first time. I remember the flame that licked the inside of my ribs. You ran scared, and I remember having broken it all. Now I smile, nothing was broken, just begun. Sometimes, something has to break to begin. 

I remember your mother, though I am sure she would not like to remember me. She did not want to know me. She made you leave without me, so you listened. But I did not. I followed, and trusted to be welcomed back in your arms. You forced the teacher of Hercules and Jason to wait. You knew I would come. I will always come.

I remember watching you become a man, your feminine features rounding out and yet slimming down. Your skin fitted to your bone and curved around the growing muscle and sinew. You said I changed, too. I marked my growth by you, so I never knew. 

I remember your sixteenth birthday. I remember rising early to gather the figs you loved so much. I remember your songs, I remember the smile when I presented my crude carving. About that day, though, I remember the night. “She cannot see us here,” you said. I remember not knowing what you meant, if you were pleased or disappointed. I could not help the dove of hope that flew into the base of my throat, stopping my words. I remember your hands on me, how you held me as I had never been held. How, for the first time, I felt loved. You must forgive me for being shaken afterwards. You were always better with words than I. 

I remember fearing the morning, then reveling in my new liberties. Again, I marked my growth by you. This time, I touched, and I felt, and I loved. I remember seeing nothing but you. I was the reason you would be happy, I swore it.

But then, of course, all changed. 

You always placed yourself in between me and danger. I remember you stepped in front of me when the call came, to shield me from harm. If only we knew then. Would we have gone, would we have answered the summons? I remember when we were told. When we knew you were living numbered days. I swore I would follow you, wherever you went. I had sworn to be the reason for your happiness. What you never knew is that you had always been the reason for mine.

I remember your pride. I remember your anger at my betrayal. I hope you knew I did it from love, not spite. 

You had always placed yourself between me and danger. Until, one day, you couldn’t. But that is alright. You had your honor, and that was what mattered to you. That is alright, though we were torn asunder. We were torn apart by benevolent gods, some say. We both know that is not the truth. We were torn apart by the folly of men, by the pride and longing of the other, by that glorious price of honor.

I remember your face, the innocence and expectance of a returning lover, you didn’t know yet. When you saw my grass and blood stained foot, a strand of my hair falling out of the blood-stained shroud, it is said that the gods in the deepest depths of the sea heard your lament. You hated yourself, I know. I wished you would forgive yourself. You never could, even in childhood. I was so proud when you relinquished Hector’s body. Those are the stories that should be told. How you forgave. How you saved so many, but couldn’t save the only one who mattered to you. You could never forget, but that was alright as well, because you forgave. You forgave all but yourself. 

I remember the peace on your face when Paris’s arrow bit into your back. I remember our ashes mixing, as you wished. I did not feel it.

I longed for the respite of the Underworld, a respite denied me for time long after you had left me. I never thought it would be your mother who would grant me peace. I had given up hope when she came. She dared to ask if I had no memories. 

Goddess, I am made of memories. 

And so I let them spill, like wine from a cup, like the blood from a wound. They soaked into the ground, into the air. They ran over my skin, the only warmth I could feel in that hellish state of half-existence. 

I do not remember her inscribing my name on the monument meant only for you. All I remember is her grief and final acceptance. “He waits for you.” I remember how long I had waited, and I fell.

We met hands, and from where our palms touched exploded a light more vibrant that a thousand suns, soaking all that we once knew in a state of grace. I remember nothing except love. There is no pain, no suffering. I do not remember the folly of men. All I see, all I know, all I was, all I am, and all I ever can be, is your love.

It is strange, what men remember. They forget me. But that is alright. Though they forget the good, they often forget the evil as well. I am glad that they remember you. I would rather a million memories of you and your love than a single memory of pain.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is my first piece for Song of Achilles, which has quickly one of my top 5 books. I hope you enjoyed, and please feel free to comment with suggestions!


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